Dark Gods Rising (6 page)

Even so, his entire body always ached to bed her, while his mind found her repulsive.

“Relax, Larson, you’re safe from me.” Sulya’s voice slid over him like liquid sex as she raised a hand to his cheek. “Well, almost safe. You know, your brother is a treat in bed. It took a long time to get him there, but once he had a taste…” Sulya stood before him, one hand caressing his cheek. Six feet tall, she could easily stare into his eyes. Up close, her luminous eyes cast a soft green glow as her hand continued stroking. “Imagine what it would be like if I had both of you in my bed, touching me, kissing, and tasting.”

She leaned closer. Her lips parted.

The heavy air became hard to breathe. Nothing mattered except Sulya’s touch and those perfect lips. Larson wanted her beneath him, wanted to drive into her, wanted to cup her heavy breasts in his hands as he squeezed.

The similian’s lips touched his. Larson reached for her hair— light flared between them. A stinging sensation ran up his sword holding arm. Sulya yelled in surprise as Larson jerked back, nearly tripping over his feet. He looked down at his sword, the Sword of Justice, a gift from his goddess. It glowed, and it never glowed unless hellkind were near.

Larson jerked his gaze around. Had the devil come back with his demons? He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to regain his night vision. After several moments, his vision cleared, and so did his senses. Sulya’s musky scent still drifted on the air, but it no longer made him feel drugged.

Realization struck Larson with a force so strong he almost raised his sword to remove her head. The bitch had tried to seduce him. Tried hell! She had succeeded until Anothosia’s blessed sword intervened.

Smiling seductively, Sulya quirked an eyebrow. “Just a taste of what you could have.”

“If you ever touch me again,” Larson said coldly, “I will not hesitate to kill you.”

A stiff, hot wind blew the last of Sulya’s musk away, and the breeze died down, leaving Larson in an eerie stillness. Shifting her weight, Sulya gripped her sword so tightly Larson heard the leather grip creak. The similian’s lips thinned to a hard-edged slash.

“Nobody threatens me!”

Larson readied himself for her attack, relished the idea of taking her head from her shoulders. Let her come. He would wipe her from the face of Terra.

She did not attack. Instead, Sulya sheathed her sword, gave him a stiff nod, turned, and left. Over her shoulder she shouted, “Good eve to you, Larson. May your goddess protect you this night.”

With a quick step, she disappeared between two ramshackle wooden buildings.

The wind picked up again, blowing hot in his face, carrying her mocking laughter.

Shuddering, Larson lifted his sword and looked around as Carrid Brewer left the tavern in search of more unbroken furniture. Hellborn were out. Knights depended on him, and a hunt was on.

* * * *

Hours later, he returned to the Hellhole Tavern. Much of the broken furniture remained, but the bodies were gone. Someone, or possibly something
,
had removed the dead. Two, maybe three hours ago, he guessed, by the remaining stains. He wasn’t sure. His exhausted mind had lost track of time.

Death’s stench still hung in the air, faint and slightly metallic. The night was so silent, so still Larson could almost hear his own sweat trickle down his back and drip from his brow. Where were the night sounds? The birds that preyed after dark? Owls and bats should have been in evidence. He couldn’t hear scavenging rats or barking dogs. Neither could he hear yowling cats, lowing horses, or braying arvids. Strange, especially the arvids. Arvids always complained, even when sleeping. Most importantly, where were his knights? He hadn’t seen one living thing in over an hour.

The feeling of impending doom returned with sudden force, His gut felt hollow. Fear sucked at his soul.

Larson’s leg muscles twitched; his shoulders ached, and his stomach growled. He desperately wanted to go home, wanted to cozy up to his wife in bed, then wake up to the beautiful sound of his daughter’s laughter. Instead, he was still chasing Hell’s escapees in a hollow night that felt wrong— very, very wrong. It wasn’t unusual for his prey to escape back down the hellhole, but tonight felt different as if the hellborn were playing games with the knights, leading them about by their noses. The hellkind’s trail had led his knight’s on a grim chase from the Downs, where the hellhole was located, south to the harbor, east to the uptown estates of the Heights, then back west again to where the search had started, one big hot miserable stinking circle. He felt like they had been chasing a dozen hellkind instead of just three or four.

Well, three now, or maybe two. Larson and Gilkrend had dispatched a smaller demon back to Zorce as it devoured someone in the harbor. A ship would be short a deckhand tomorrow morning. Larson might be short Gilkrend and maybe more. Was he the last knight remaining? Where had they all gone? Why this game of hide and seek? He was used to hellkind being much more direct. Was he dealing with a different breed of hellborn? Of late, they had been smarter, more powerful, and meaner.

Larson took a deep, quiet breath. He was so weary, so sick of the games. At twenty-seven, he already felt like he had lived a lifetime. Anithia had noticed silver caught among his blond hair when she last trimmed it.

Come on Larson
, he chided himself,
at least be thankful the dawn is almost here
,
and we now outnumber them
.

Maybe outnumbered them if the others still lived, not that numbers would make a big difference with only one extra knight, but it helped nonetheless. Originally, there had been five knights hunting the creatures, but Gilkrend had been injured so badly they’d taken him back to the temple. Larson prayed he lived. Anothosia’s sworn knights were dwindling in number. Recruits with the right abilities, the right
gifts
, were hard to find. Hell had taken its toll on the Knights of the Order of the Sword and the Staff these last years.

“Larson,” Sulya hissed from several feet away.

Again Larson felt his heart try to leap out of his chest while his mind settled with relief. Gods damn the woman! Now was not the time for her games, but it was good to make contact with at least one of his knights.

Larson took a deep breath to help control his urge to throttle Sulya as she crept over to him. He didn’t like being caught unaware. How in the name of Anothosia had she seen him? He had been crouched down in a pitch black doorway and concealed within his magic.

Bones aching, he stood up. Feeling brittle and old, he took a quiet step out of the shadows. His hand felt raw beneath his glove from holding his sword in a death grip all night. Looking to the sky, he noticed the two moons were waning. The darkest part of the night, the one right before the dawn, was upon them. What little breeze there had been a short time earlier was gone. He felt like an over-baked loaf of bread inside his armor.

“Game time is over, Larson,” Sulya whispered. “It’s time for blood work. Two hellborn are inside the tavern. I saw them carrying something. I think a body.” Sulya kept her distance, stopping several feet from Larson, just out of range of his sword.

“I haven’t seen anyone enter since I’ve been here.” A knot formed in Larson chest.
Gods no. Not another knight dead
.

Sulya gave him a quick nod. “Yeah, it’s weird. I’ve been waiting here for a while and only just now noticed you. I looked for the other knights but couldn’t find anyone. I thought they were chasing one of the demons until now. If we don’t go inside we might lose more of our number.”

Indecision tore at Larson. If it were the devil in there, he and Sulya would be unable to handle it. But if the captive was still alive— could he face himself in the mirror knowing he had acted the coward and allowed one of his own to die?

No, he could not.

Decision made, Larson took the lead and crept among the shadows of the dilapidated buildings. Not a soul was in sight. Even so, Larson felt eyes upon him. His skin prickled.

The tavern’s door had been repaired, but it hung open. Why hadn’t he noticed this before? Was he that tired?

With a curse, he placed his foot upon the tavern’s threshold. He stopped, held his breath, and listened. Aside from his own erratic heartbeat, Larson heard nothing. He eased inside, looking carefully around the dingy interior. The reek of puke, blood, and stale alcohol made him want to add his own bile to the mixture. The weak floorboards groaned beneath his weight. He might as well have barged in banging a pan with a metal spoon. If the devil were here, it knew someone was creeping about.

In pitch black, Larson slid his feet carefully along the floor, feeling his way to a wall where he thought there should be a scone hanging.

A scuttling noise came from the kitchen. Larson stopped, waited a moment, but heard nothing more. Reaching through the dark, Larson touched the wall, and thankfully, found the wall scone. With a bit of willpower, he
thought
the wick into lighting. It flickered slowly, and then began to burn brighter, giving Larson a better view of the chaos around him. Chairs and tables had been haphazardly stood back up. Other than that, Carrid had not bothered cleaning. The walls and floor were spattered with dried blood. Broken wooden mugs, smashed casks of ale, and bottles of cheap wine littered the floor as well.

“I bet they took the prisoner down into the cellar,” Sulya whispered from behind him. “Into the hole.”

Larson’s heart seized again and that worried him. Yes, her whisper had taken him by surprise, but he was a knight with nerves of steel. Why did she bring up his alarms? He had never before felt so violent and edgy toward any woman.

“Don’t stand so close,” he whispered.
Don’t stand in the same room
, he thought heatedly. Why did it have to be Sulya with him? Where were the other knights?

Larson feared the answer would be
down the hole
.

Sulya slipped by him without a word and entered the kitchen. Larson hesitated before following her. Once inside, they paused to listen.

Nothing.

“Look.” Sulya pointed to the cellar door. Faint light illuminated its entrance, indicating someone was down there. “Oh gods, Larson. I don’t think I can bear to see another one of us dead.”

Neither could he, but someone had to look. Slipping in front of Sulya, Larson cautiously made his way to the other door. The kitchen had been spared the demolition. Pots and pans still hung neatly in their places. A grime covered oven and an open fireplace stood in the same corner as the cellar entrance. Opening the door, Larson placed his foot on the top step leading to the hellhole. Black puddles shone on the worn wooden steps.

“Not good,” he told Sulya. “There’s blood.”

“Damn right there is,” she chuckled.

Something heavy slammed into Larson’s back, sending him tumbling and ricocheting down the decrepit stairwell. His head slammed into a step, knocking his helm off. Another blow sent his sword flying. Pain shot through his body as he bounced and then, with a sharp crack, he landed at the bottom. His world went black.

* * * *

The first sensation he felt upon waking was a searing pain along his cheek. His eyes flew open, and he groaned as the burning switched sides to track its way along his other cheek.

“Oh my, I think I woke him up.” A scratchy, whiny voice said from above and behind his head.

Larson tried to look toward the voice, but he couldn’t move. Nothing obeyed his commands. For a moment, he thought he had been tied though he couldn’t feel any ropes or chains. He felt nothing holding him, and yet he could not move. Cold, hard fear settled in his chest like a block of ice.

Something tugged at his leg, jerked him around. He tried to lift his head to see what yanked on him, but again, his body stayed immobile.

“Cut it off if you’re hungry,” the whiny voice said.

Cut it off? Cut what off?

A low hiss sounded down by his feet.

Suddenly free to move, Larson choked back a scream and rolled to the side as a piece of the darkness lunged at him. He swore as his bruised body was struck, grabbed, and thrown. Spinning in the air, Larson crashed into the wall. He gave a strangled gasp as ribs snapped.

More laughter echoed through the room. Raising his head high, Larson called to his goddess. “Anothosia, I pray to you, help me find my sword!”

The room burst into brilliant light. Hellkind screamed and scattered. Appearing as a ball of golden light in the middle of the room, his goddess’s gift, Larson’s sword, shattered the darkness, blinding the creatures of the hellgods. Suddenly able to move, Larson dove for it, grabbed, and rolled to a crouching position with the blade held ready. His body screamed agony as his broken ribs stole his breath. Black spots marring his vision, he stood and readied himself for battle. Again, a blast of muddy light slammed him into the wall. Larson screamed. Searing pain traveled up his right arm.

Darkness overtook him.

* * * *

Larson awoke to agonizing pain. From a faint light in the corner, he saw he again lay at the bottom of the steps. “Oh, no,” he whispered, turning his head to the side. His arm. Gone. Only a charred stub remained.